


And With Hearts Unbroken

by hyperlydian



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M, idk its mostly meta, it just is, its not even angst, smh at past me, this is the one where apparently the zhang family ducked the one child law???, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-02
Updated: 2012-09-02
Packaged: 2018-11-07 15:19:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11061714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyperlydian/pseuds/hyperlydian
Summary: Yixing does not bend. everyday he breaks and is left to try and build himself again, like a human house of cards.





	And With Hearts Unbroken

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully this is more than just 5k+ of Yixing meta, but even so, a huge HUGE thank you to Konnie, my knee couple's other half, for her help with this, and an all-expenses-paid, sex-and-cuddles-filled vacation with Kai to Jeju Island for my beta Emmi for working through this with me and helping bring my rambles into something readable.
> 
> Still best if read while listening to Tycho's [a circular reeducation (dusty brown remix)](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q049VuAjmLQ) (will Maggie's awesome taste in music ever fail to bring me awesome music? i think not.)
> 
> 张加帅 ( _Zhang Jiashuai_ ), yixing's birth name, supposedly means "Zhang Become-more-handsome", which is why his older brother uses it as a tease. [Source](http://www.tiki-toki.com/timeline/entry/49974/Zhang-Yixing-/#!panel=446858!) .

Yixing’s parents had already had one son when he was born, and sometimes he wonders if that’s why they had given him a name that was practically a punchline.  
  
“张加帅! _Zhang Jiashuai!_ ” his older brother had sang at him when he was old enough to understand he was being teased, and it was universally acknowledged in his family that Yixing had not been an attractive baby.  
  
That didn’t seem to last though, his father noticing he liked to sing, letting him change his name and audition for show after show and smiling whenever Yixing came out of the audition room waving a contract.  
  
His mother, though, she loved his brother more.  
  
Jiahan was the perfect student, the perfect oldest son, and no matter how many TV shows Yixing went on, no matter how many fans he had, he was a disappointment to her.  
  
“It’s not respectable to be making a spectacle of yourself,” she had scolded him once, while his father was at work. “Why can’t you be like your older brother and just live quietly?”  
  
Jiahan had watched him from the other side of the table, hair parted nicely as he slowly ate his rice, and Yixing had hated himself for somehow being so wrong.  
  
Yixing’s father, on the other hand, had liked him best, maybe even loved him. Yixing was never totally sure.  
  
When he had left for Korea though, having won a spot as a trainee for one of the biggest entertainment companies on this side of the globe, his father had taken him to the airport. Lifting Yixing’s suitcase out of the car trunk, he had paused to look his son in the eye.  
  
“Don’t begin this unless you’re ready to see it through,” he had said, “because if you’re not, your imperfections will tear you up from the inside.”  
  
Yixing had been seventeen then and the words were scary, raising goosebumps on the tops of his arms. But he remembered them, and later he wondered if his father really loved him at all, if he had really been willing to send his youngest son off to do something that might bring him back destroyed.  
  
  
  
  
To Yixing, music and dancing is about pushing himself as hard as he can, as soon as he can, while he’s still young and there’s time for his dreams to come true, and the most he can hope for is that he isn’t the one that burns out first.  
  
He has watched some of his friends, people that he thought he knew, drop away from training like an afterthought, their broken dreams left to fester in the studios like echoes in a canyon, and nothing has ever been so demoralizing. Yixing has been doing this for a long time and seen the ones that make it end up tired and worn out, riddled with cruelty or neuroses, but more than anything else, they just want to know that they are loved. Most of the time, they are loved because of what they can do and not for who they are, but that hardly matters because without those things, who are they anyway.  
  
The hard truth of the matter is, if singing, or dancing, or songwriting were ever to be taken away from him, Zhang Yixing wouldn’t have a clue who he was.  
  
  
  
  
It’s not like that for Jongin.  
  
For him, dancing is catharsis. When he gets to go through a routine, or make up a step, or perform onstage, he is more than just Exo’s Kai, Dancing Machine. He is the most pure version of himself, undiluted Kim Jongin, performing for the whole world to see. And when people love the way he dances, the fluid motions of his legs and arms through each combination, from step to step, they are really loving _him_.  
  
Yixing had first met Jongin in a dance studio, the boy’s bright smile lighting up a face that was soaked with sweat, and he hadn’t even needed to speak for Yixing to realize that with Jongin around, he had a long, long way to go before he was perfect.  
  
Jongin loves dance, finds freedom and release in it in a way that Yixing has never found in anything and the jealousy he feels of that burns in his chest, something less like envy and more like heartache.  
  
The root of the problem is that without all of the things that he’s good at, Yixing doesn’t think there’s much else that anyone could love him for.  
  
  
  
  
Sometimes, he will show Jongin a new step he’s thought of, or a progression he’s made up on his guitar, or new lyrics he’s scribbled into his notebook when he should have been sleeping.  
  
Yixing likes Jongin. Not in the same way that most people do, with adoration or awe for his charisma or his skill for dance, but with an almost scientific fascination. He wants to know everything that Jongin likes, because then maybe if he can figure that out, then everyone will like him just the same way.  
  
He wants to pick Jongin’s allure apart under a magnifying glass, finding the best parts and bottling them up inside a jar.  
  
Jongin is familiar with the dancing, but has nothing to bring to the guitar playing or the songwriting except for his own personal taste, but he always sits patiently until Yixing is finished.  
  
Then, sometimes he will say something like, “I like it, _hyung_. I think it’s good.”  
  
The reason Yixing keeps coming back to Jongin like this is because he can’t seem to figure him out, the pieces of him put together by a set of instructions written in a language Yixing can’t understand.  
  
“Yes,” Yixing will always say, leaning towards him, eyes bright and hungry, “but is it good _enough_?”  
  
And almost every time, Jongin looks at him like he has no idea what to say.  
  
  
  
  
(It’s the times where he doesn’t say that that keep Yixing coming back for more.  
  
Usually it happens when Yixing comes to him about dancing, and he is excited by what Yixing has shown him, energized by the idea of integrating something new into the movements of his body in front of the practice room mirror, and Yixing is fascinated because every time, Jongin seems to somehow take something he’s thought of and make it better, more perfect.  
  
And when he’s doing that, Jongin always looks back at Yixing, eyes burning like bright coals with energy, and Yixing thinks he might understand a little bit more why people can’t help but love Kim Jongin.)  
  
  
  
  
Whenever Yixing smokes cigarettes, the trail of smoke always seems to drift back to him, like moths to a flame. He knows there’s a song in that, but can never seem to find the words, and he always comes back inside with a verse on the tip of his tongue while the back of his mouth tastes sour, like ashes and all the wrong words.  
  
And it’s moments like that, or the times when he glares at his reflection in the dance studio like he doesn’t even know himself, or his fingers slip over the frets that line the neck of his guitar, that Yixing swallows the bitter pill that is realizing that what he does breeds selfishness and self-destruction.  
  
When Yixing is perfect, the few rare times he is, anyway, the path behind him is littered with the corpses of Yixing’s past, reincarnations of himself that he has used up and abandoned for the next, something better, more perfect, and each time, he dons a new self and thinks, _this one. This one will be the last_.  
  
But Yixing likes to imagine himself as a realist and knows not to believe himself for a second, especially when he’s talking about who he really is.  
  
Sometimes Wu Fan will come out on the fire escape of the dorm and join him. Cigarettes look good held between Wu Fan’s long fingers and when he talks, Yixing thinks it sounds like Wu Fan has lived for a long time.  
  
“Have they talked to you about your concept yet?” he asks one night, the humid air holding the smoke he exhales at eye-level.  
  
Yixing shakes his head. “I’m not even sure I’ll debut soon, so what’s the point?”  
  
Wu Fan is handsome, Yixing thinks, but more than that he’s _tall_ — taller than Yixing could ever hope to be, no matter how much milk he drinks — and he shakes the thought out of his head because his height is the last imperfection he should be worrying about.  
  
Stretching his neck from side to side, Wu Fan says, “You’ll debut, and soon. And when the time comes you should be ready with who you want to be.”  
  
Wu Fan has been here longer than he has, has watched trainees come and go and groups debut, so Yixing asks, “So what’s yours then? If you’ve already got it figured out.”  
  
The taller boy takes it as the half comeback Yixing meant it to be, but shrugs it off. “People like things that are bright, like Lu Han or Park Chanyeol, but more than that, everyone loves a good mystery.”  
  
Yixing has known Wu Fan for almost three years, has stuck to him the way all Chinese trainees stick to each other, but it isn’t until that moment that he realizes that he knows next to nothing about his friend’s life before he came to Korea.  
  
“But people in China know almost everything about me.” His life has been chronicled by TV shows and fansites since he was nine years old and Yixing can’t seem to think of anything about him that’s still a mystery.  
  
Wu Fan smiles at him, the same tight-lipped one he’s been giving everyone lately because of stress and exhaustion, and stubs out his cigarette. “Just because you know where someone came from doesn’t mean you know them.” He pats Yixing’s shoulder and Yixing jumps at the contact. Wu Fan’s hands are almost comically large, but his palms are warm and the contrast is startling. “You’ll figure it out.”  
  
  
  
  
And so Yixing figures it out. He watches the other trainees, the ones who are well-liked and popular, and tries to piece something together. Another new Zhang Yixing — a better one.  
  
Jongin is a bit of a mystery himself. He’s a bit awkward and unsure around other people, but when he’s on the dance floor, everything he does seems preordained, and when Yixing realizes this, there’s some relief in it, in knowing a little more of what makes Jongin seem so perfect.  
  
He comes to find that a little shallowness can be seen as endearing, wide eyes and clueless smiles pulling people in and making them want to hear his laugh, press their fingertips into his dimple as he gapes.  
  
Even more than that, the switch between that self, airhead Yixing, to the way he is when he dances, methodical and intense and so-close-to-perfect, seems to surprise them even more.  
  
_Everyone loves a good mystery_ , Wu Fan had said, and it shows.  
  
  
  
  
Once, Jongin asks him, “How do you do it?”  
  
“What?”  
  
They are heading back from a dancing session, sweat sliding down Jongin’s neck only to get caught in the neck of his shirt, and he motions with his hands, trying to find a way to communicate what he means in a mix of easy Korean and Mandarin.  
  
“The way you go from… staring off into space to how you are when you dance.”  
  
Yixing stops himself from smiling, because that’s exactly what he’s been going for, and attempts to look confused. “I don’t know what you mean.”  
  
As they step out of the elevator, Jongin looks at him suspiciously and Yixing thinks he might hear him mutter, “Sure you don’t.”  
  
  
  
  
When Yixing is first told about Exo’s debut, he is excited. He can see bright lights and fansigns with his name on them twinkling from the crowd in his mind, imagines the fans that will scream every time they see his face, every time he opens his mouth.  
  
But by the time they’ve gotten back to the dorm, something’s gone wrong inside of him, heart twisted up with his lungs so that he’s breathing his pulse and his ventricles are pumping air. He rushes to the rooftop, desperate to be able to breathe again, and slumps against the railing.  
  
He blinks down at the street below.  
  
Swallows.  
  
Then he thinks of how soon the sidewalk will be filled with screaming fangirls, people that _love_ him, and all of a sudden, the air seems to vibrate, everything too tight around him.  
  
Yixing feels his whole body shaking, as if it were trying to tear apart and his stomach is rolling, threatening to work its way up his throat.  
  
The door to the roof opens just when Yixing is trying to take off his coat, skin clammy with sweat and making him feel so hot he can’t breathe. Jongin helps him free his arms, and pulls Yixing back into his chest, combing his fingers through Yixing’s hair and murmuring something about panic attacks.  
  
After a while, the sick feeling goes away and all Yixing cares about is the steady feel of Jongin’s heartbeat against his back.  
  
“They’ll like you, _ge_ ,” Jongin says, with his limited Mandarin. “We’ll be fine.”  
  
“I don’t want it to be fine.” The words are out of Yixing’s mouth before he can stop them and Jongin’s fingers still in his hair for a moment.  
  
“What do you want then?”  
  
“I want them to love me.”  
  
To some people, love is an exchange, a give and a take. But Yixing knows it will never be like that for him, because no matter how much someone loves him, he will always both love and hate himself more than anyone else.  
  
The truth seems very naked in the openness of the rooftop. Jongin’s fingers start combing through his hair again and Yixing wants to know more.  
  
“It’s not normal, right?” he asks, voice unsure and not very like the new confident self he has started showing people.  
  
“What’s isn’t?”  
  
Yixing finds himself reaching to grip onto Jongin’s shirt, the view from the roof suddenly scaring him. Or maybe it’s not the roof. Maybe it’s just that he wants to make sure Jongin doesn’t let him go. “To want people to love me like this.”  
  
“Of course not. Everyone wants to be loved.” Jongin seems to notice the hold Yixing has on him, and pulls him in closer, so that Yixing is practically in his lap. He smells like the mustiness of the dance studio and kimchi from dinner and salty skin, and the combination is so perfect, so Jongin, that Yixing wishes he were brave enough to turn around and bury his face in Jongin’s neck and just inhale.  
  
But Yixing isn’t perfect and isn’t brave, and so he just sinks back into Jongin’s chest and feels the vibrations that travel through his ribcage when he says, “It’s when someone succeeds that makes them abnormal.”  
  
  
  
  
“How do you do it?”  
  
Jongin seems to know that Yixing is talking about his injury, about dancing through pain, and his face shows the ghost of a smile.  
  
“I tell myself that I can bend without breaking. That I’ve trained to be flexible like that for years.”  
  
They are leaning up against the mirrors of their practice room, taking a quick break from going over the choreography for their shared teaser, and Yixing’s knuckles are white from the tight hold he has on his water bottle. “I don’t know how to do that.”  
  
Yixing does not bend. Everyday he breaks and is left to try and build himself again, like a human house of cards.  
  
Jongin stands up, hiding a wince, and tosses him a towel, saying, “Then maybe it’s time you learned.”  
  
Yixing stands too, watching the light play on the sweaty curve of Jongin’s biceps, his smile as he gets back into position, shoes squeaking loudly against the polished wooden floor.  
  
Everyday Yixing breaks and rebuilds himself for the next, but the next time, as he does it, he thinks, _tomorrow.  
  
Tomorrow maybe I will shatter a little less._  
  
  
  
  
Their debut comes and goes, and Yixing injures himself, but he thinks of what Jongin said, and decides he might be happy.  
  
Dancing in front of cameras is like dancing in front of God, and the fans that had showed up to their showcases had only been precursors to the ones they would have after their true debut. Yixing looks out at their faces at one event, as he and his bandmates walk down the red carpet, flashbulbs almost blinding him as the girls scream their names, and in that moment, his heart beats wildly in his chest, because this must be what love is like.  
  
  
  
  
After their first few interviews, though, Wu Fan starts to get irritated.  
  
“You’re allowed to talk,” he says, scowling from his seat in front of Yixing in the van. “I thought you enjoyed being the center of attention.  
  
And that much is true. That’s the reason Yixing wanted to become an idol in the first place, so that he could stand up onstage and dance or sing songs that he wrote himself, and watch as people fell in love with him by the hundreds.  
  
Sitting down in front of a camera, holding a microphone for an interview, is somehow a thousand times more terrifying, because the MC’s want to know “the real Zhang Yixing” but without music to hide behind, Yixing has no idea who he is. There is only safety in blankness and empty smiles; anything else will show the word how transparent the Real Zhang Yixing is.  
  
But Yixing doesn’t say this, trying to school his face into something impassive to get Wu Fan off his case, and says without even blinking, “Maybe next time.”  
  
Zitao and Jongdae snort from the backseat and Wu Fan’s lips pinch tight, the expression he wears when he becomes so irritated that he can’t be bothered to talk anymore.  
  
Yixing slumps back into his seat and tries to think of things that aren’t humiliating.  
  
  
  
  
“You shouldn’t smoke, you know,” Jongin says, coming out to stand next to him on the fire escape. Jongin always seems to know just where to find him and Yixing wonders if, while he’s been spending all his time trying to piece together what makes up Kim Jongin, maybe Jongin’s already got him figured out.  
  
Jongin has a habit of stealing the cigarette Yixing is holding, making him pull another out of his pack. He watches Jongin’s profile as he lights up. “You should take your own advice then.”  
  
“One won’t kill me,” Jongin shrugs. The tendrils of smoke seem to gather around his head like a wreath in the orange light that illuminates the fire escape.  
  
Yixing takes a drag and sighs like the smoke is heavy in his lungs. “Exactly.”  
  
He doesn’t tell Jongin that he smokes because it is a means of control. Every lungful of smoke is a hand he’s had in his own destruction, rather than just leaving it to the opinions of others to rip him apart, piece by bloody piece.  
  
Whenever Jongin does this with him, Yixing is always surprised, because perfect people don’t smoke, don’t need a stress-release like this. Yixing does this because he isn’t perfect, will never be, so he’ll suck smoke into his lungs and let them wither until they’re black, so that when that happens, he’ll be able to say, _I had control over this, I did this to myself._  
  
Yixing doesn’t know why Jongin smokes, but when he sees the dancer’s lips wrapped around the filter, he sees something perfect being sullied, made dirty, and somewhere, in the back of his mind, wonders if Jongin is really so perfect after all.  
  
  
  
  
Yixing thinks that he is handsome. Or rather, he _knows_ he is. It’s hard not to examine his own face when there are hundreds, thousands of pictures of himself floating around these days.  
  
It’s just… he really thinks most of the other members are _better_ looking, that’s all, and each time he looks at a group photo, his own imperfections end up glaring up at him and he accepts it like a kick in the gut, another black mark on his personal tally of failures.  
  
Instead, he usually chooses to look at Jongin in those pictures. Jongin is handsome, but he is also beautiful in a way that Yixing could never be, somehow both innocent and smoldering at the same time, and Yixing has spent too many hours studying the contours of Jongin’s face, wondering what it would be like to wake up to that every day, wondering what it would be like to always be faced with perfection.  
  
  
  
  
Their trip to Taiwan is bad.  
  
His waist injury flares up to the point where his body is on the edge of going numb from the pain all the time and he has to concentrate on not flinching with every inhale. Jongin is pretty much the same, and they make it through the concert hopped up on a fairly lethal combination of energy drinks and painkillers.  
  
Afterwards, he and Jongin are confined to the hotel room couches while everyone else goes out the next day for their schedules. It’s late spring, but Jongin is cocooned in his blanket on the couch across from him as he and Yixing watch television. The shows are all in Mandarin and while Yixing knows Jongin is probably getting most of it, he also knows the other boy is probably bored.  
  
“What do you like about me?” he asks suddenly, during a commercial for a skincare product for smaller pores.  
  
“ _Hyung_?” Jongin looks at him curiously.  
  
“I’m serious.”  
  
He licks his lips, face still pale from the exertion and pain of the concert, and Yixing finds himself watching the movement. Jongin’s tongue is shiny and pink against his lips and he wonders if its texture would be smooth like wetted silk or rough like a cat’s.  
  
Then Jongin speaks hesitantly, awkwardly, and jolts him out of his trance.  
  
“You’re nice and funny — “  
  
_Wrong_. “Not really,” Yixing tries to interrupt, “You all just laugh at whatever I say.”  
  
Jongin continues as though he hadn’t heard him, “ — and you’ve always helped me with Chinese even when you didn’t have to —  
  
_Wrong_. “Not as much as Wu Fan or Lu Han _ge_.”  
  
“ — and I like the songs you write and your voice — “  
  
_Wrong_. “Jongdae and Kyungsoo and Baekhyun are better, though.”  
  
Jongin’s voice is getting louder and more confident with every interruption, speaking over the sound of the TV in the background. “ — You dance really well and work on choreography with me even when practice is over — “  
  
_Wrong, wrong_. The list Jongin is making is crawling under his skin, like lies made of bugs, and he wants to scream that Jongin has it all wrong, he’s not any of these things. “If I didn’t stay after, I would fall behind. I’ll never be as good as you — “  
  
“Would you shut up and let me give you a damn compliment?” Jongin finally snaps and Yixing feels something inside of him break along with him.  
  
“Don’t you get it? Don’t you understand what it means for my back to be like this?” Yixing hears himself yell, angry Mandarin syllables echoing around the room. “I’m _broken_. No one could ever want me like this, _love_ me like this!”  
  
The silence that follows is almost louder than his outburst. Jongin suddenly looks disgusted with him. “You’re so _stupid_ ,” he spits in Korean, rolling away and hissing at the change in position.  
  
“Jong — “ he starts, shock prompting him to speak.  
  
“No. You’re so incredibly moronic that I don’t want to even look at your face right now.”  
  
Yixing tries once or twice to get Jongin to roll back over, but soon the room is left with televised Mandarin, the ring of the TV filling Yixing’s ears as he stares at Jongin’s back, wishing he knew what to say.  
  
  
  
  
Exo M is in Seoul for a few days and even though they’re all tired, the twelve of them like to spend as much time together as they can, members flowing in and out of either dorm, regardless of their subgroup.  
  
“What’s wrong with Jongin?” Minseok asks, on his way out to watch a movie with Junmyeon.  
  
Jongin had been in a foul mood ever since they had gotten back from Taiwan. Nothing overt enough to be addressed, but the last time Yixing had tried to ask him something during dance rehearsal, Jongin’s face had looked like he wanted to tear Yixing’s face off and feed it to the new company trainees.  
  
Yixing shrugs. “Beats me. He’s mad about something, though.”  
  
“Maybe you should,” Minseok seems to pause, as though picking through his limited store of Mandarin words for just the right one, “go check on him.”  
  
“Why can’t you do it?”  
  
Minseok shakes his head. “I’m not the one he’s angry at.”  
  
“How do you — “ he tries to argue, but Minseok has already disappeared out the door.  
  
Yixing rattles around M’s dorm for a while, muttering about nosy band members, when he realizes he’s all alone with no one to complain to.  
  
By the time he gets over to the other dorm, everyone is settled in doing other things. Kyungsoo, Junmyeon, and Minseok are watching a movie on Junmyeon’s computer (also known as falling asleep on the leader’s bed) while the others are either playing video games (Chanyeol, Sehun and Jongdae) or pretending not to gossip in the kitchen (Baekhyun, Zitao, Luhan and an irritated-looking Wu Fan).  
  
Unsurprisingly, Jongin is nowhere to be found. Yixing feels suffocated by all the easy camaraderie that’s filling the rooms, and he makes his way to the fire escape to catch some air.  
  
Jongin is there when he opens the door, leaning against the railing and staring at the walls of the next building as if there is something crucial written on them.  
  
He jumps when the door slams behind Yixing, but when he turns around to see who it is, he barely spares Yixing a glance.  
  
“Jongin,” he tries, but his throat is suddenly so dry that his voice is no more than a croak. He licks his lips and tries again. “Are you — still angry at me?”  
  
He hears Jongin make a tutting noise with his tongue. “Wrong question, _hyung_.”  
  
Yixing stares at the back of Jongin’s head, wishing this didn’t matter to him, wishing he didn’t care — if he was a better person, then maybe it wouldn’t — but the words come tumbling out before he can stop them.  
  
“Look, I — I know why you got mad the other day. It’s just…”  
  
Jongin turns to look at him, finally, and Yixing wishes he were better at this.  
  
But he isn’t, and Jongin is waiting for him to finish, and this might be his only chance.  
  
“I’m all messed up inside. I’m not right for someone else to love, but I want that anyway.” He’s staring at his shoes, the strangest feeling of fear, of stage-fright, clawing at his chest and making him avoid Jongin’s eyes. “I want to be good enough to love someone back, but I’m selfish, and not perfect, and I don’t deserve anything.”  
  
“If being perfect was the only way we could be loved, everyone would be alone.” While he wasn’t looking, Jongin had moved towards him, so close that their arms are brushing now and Yixing feels like everywhere their skin touches is going to catch fire. “And you don’t have to be anything to be able to love someone. You just do.”  
  
This close, Yixing can see Jongin’s acne and the dark circles under his eyes, like deep bruises, and the funny little dip in his nose that he’s had fixed. From this distance, Yixing wants to say that Jongin is like a Monet painting, a masterpiece from far away, but messy and useless up close, but nothing could be further from the truth.  
  
He was expecting Jongin to say something cliche about how nobody is perfect, but he wasn’t prepared for this. Not for the way Jongin is looking at him, dark eyes burning at him through the dusky light like the embers of a cigarette, or for Jongin’s fingers to find their way to his collar, fingertips skimming his collarbones, and Yixing wonders if he can feel the way his pulse seems to be hammering through his throat. And he definitely wasn’t prepared for the way Jongin leans down, eyes watching him carefully, and kisses him.  
  
He feels himself gasp, Jongin’s lips plush and soft as they drag across his mouth, and when the taller boy pulls back, Yixing can see the uncertainty in Jongin’s face, as if he is expecting to be pushed away.  
  
Even someone like Jongin, who is almost universally adored, is afraid he isn’t wanted. The absurdity of that thought flashes through his mind like a thunderbolt.  
  
And Yixing doesn’t have his music with him, can’t break out into a dance right now, but he’s still Yixing — _just Zhang Yixing_ — and Jongin is looking at him as if he were the most important person in the world.  
  
His arms have found their way around Jongin’s ribs, holding him back from walking away, and he squeezes a little, feeling Jongin’s bandages through his shirt.  
  
Jongin flinches, hissing in pain and Yixing knows he should say he’s sorry, only he’s not, because Jongin is broken and feels pain and is still here in Yixing’s arms, wanting to kiss him — wanting, Yixing almost dares to hope, in the most secret chamber of his heart, to love him.  
  
Pressing their torsos together, Yixing sinks his teeth into Jongin’s upper lip, biting it hard enough to swell, and Jongin makes a sound in protest, moving his hands to Yixing’s jaw and trying to take control of the kiss. Yixing lets him, because that had been his plan all along, and when Jongin licks his way into his mouth, a bit too eager to be smooth, and his fingers get tangled in Yixing’s hair, tugging so hard it hurts and Yixing is panting, he thinks that nothing could be more perfect than this.  
  
  
  
  
He and Jongin still dance together, going over steps so many times that when they finally collapse on the floor next to each other, lifting water bottles with shaking hands, Yixing can look in the mirror and think, _that’s enough for today_.  
  
And sometimes Jongin will search out his hand or press a finger into the obvious dimple of Yixing’s cheek to make him laugh, and Yixing will prop himself up against the floor so he can see Jongin’s face more clearly.  
  
The younger boy’s skin is flawed without makeup, acne scars and tired lines around his eyes glaring under the lights, but he reaches a hand up to run through Yixing’s hair, pushing it back from his face, and Yixing thinks that no one’s eyes have ever been so clear, so perfect.  
  
Yixing knows it’s probably not healthy, the way he loves Jongin. How he still wants to take all the good parts, all the bits that people can’t help but love, and bottle them up in a jar until he knows how to do the same things himself, how he still is fascinated every time he sees Jongin dance.  
  
Jongin does not break. He does not seem to put the pieces of himself back together each day in search of a combination that fits. He simply works and builds on what he already has, like so many rows of Legos, trying to live up to the weight that has been put on his shoulders.  
  
Maybe he should want something easy and gentle, a perfect relationship painted in pastels and hearts, but nothing Yixing has asked himself to do before has ever been easy either. Sometimes he thinks if being with Jongin was that simple, he wouldn’t want it as much, because the kind of deep masochism that has been trained into him through hours spent in a practice room isn’t so easily washed away.  
  
But Jongin seems to be fighting the same battle of holding things too tightly and then trying to let go, watching in fear to see if they leave. Jongin is not perfect, but Yixing is still fascinated by him and sometimes he isn’t sure if he loves Jongin for all the things that make him seem perfect, the ones that make other people love him too, or for all the other bits he still doesn’t understand.  
  
Yixing thinks that slowly, he might be learning to bend.  
  
Even when he breaks, Jongin is there to tell him, _tomorrow. Tomorrow you will bend a little further_ , and Yixing will tighten his hold and refuse to let go. _  
_


End file.
